


Black Tag

by Aelaer



Series: Tumblr Prompt Fills [1]
Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 06:31:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20559797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelaer/pseuds/Aelaer
Summary: Even though Stephen knew the logic behind his actions, knew that in triage situations, some people got the black tag, it did not stop his stomach from twisting into a knot as he lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling and weighed down by the consequences of his actions.In the silence and loneliness of the Sanctum, even while logic echoed in his head, guilt settled in the depths of Stephen’s core and began to make a home there.For Stephen Strange Bingo's 'It's Not Your Fault' square.





	Black Tag

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot was originally posted on my tumblr several weeks ago in response to this ask prompt:
> 
> _So I have a request: A Stephen who, in the Canon compliant universe, returns to the Sanctum for the first time in 5 years, breaks down and is completely devastated and exhausted from everything that happened. And then a time skip, to Stephen now having moved on, in acceptance. He may still feel a little guilty, but is immensely thankful for intimately knowing the beautiful souls who sacrificed themselves and resolved to cherish and celebrate their lives with their friends and family._
> 
> I’m still not terribly pleased with the ending but what will you do. Fill for the Stephen Strange bingo ‘It’s not your fault’.

The sun was setting over a celebratory New York City when Stephen came again to the New York Sanctum after five years gone. The powers that surrounded the building muffled the cheers and shouts and crying out on Bleecker Street from all the locals, unaware that the man who had helped instigate all their suffering was within the neighborhood.

It had been well over thirty hours since he had come back with the rest of the Disappeared. He was done with giving his report to the other Masters of Kamar-Taj and done with his part in what immediate reorganization was needed for their order. They had finally let him go to rest; he was alone. Wong, for instance, was still settling things as one of those who had survived the Decimation, and still helping others come to terms with what had passed.

And now, now all Stephen could think of was bed. He had washed up a bit in Kamar-Taj, thankfully, for he did not know if he would have had the stamina to do it now. The Cloak more-or-less carried him to his room as his body trembled, complete exhaustion overwhelming his entire being. He fell asleep near instantly.

It wasn’t until twelve hours later, as the dawn broke through his (unnatural) window to an untarnished view of the eastern coastline, that his exhaustion had dimmed to weariness and his mind had time to sort through everything that had happened.

Stephen had not spent his five years gone idle; unlike most other souls that were caught within the Soul Stone due to Thanos, he had an awareness of consciousness due to his connection to the Mystic Arts that made him able to utilize his time, even if time was not something he could feel passing. In those five years he had drawn power from the Soul Stone, a continuous draw into his own spirit to prepare for what he had to do upon his return.

(He knew, of course, that the Stone’s housing was disintegrated into atoms back in 2018. However, its raw energy was not actually gone, just scattered like the rest of the Infinity Stones. The first rule of thermodynamics was something Thanos did not consider, or maybe he did not care so long as that power was not easily obtainable for some time to come. In the end, he supposed it really didn’t matter.)

When he came to on Titan once more, he spared a minute briefly explaining the situation to the others, then asked for complete silence as he got them back to Earth, and more; for he had taken his borrowed energy to send a mental message to all warriors across the universe that he had found within the Soul Stone: _The one who sent you away for five years must be defeated. Prepare for battle._

And then he made portals. So many fucking portals, portals he had no business having the ability to create, portals connected to the locations of those warriors across the universe, portals created with the power of the Soul Stone accumulated over five years and fully spent over the course of five minutes.

It was a damned miracle he had anything left in him for battle, but the Soul Stone was unlike any power source he had ever used before, including the Time Stone. Channeling the energy of Infinity Stones was unique to the standard rules of magic already, but the Soul Stone’s power was— indescribable.

So he had been able to battle. To hold himself up. And to watch as people from all over the universe, both the newly resurrected and those that had lived in a broken world, were slaughtered by Thanos’s armies. Slaughtered and with no way to return, not this time; he had used the Time Stone once to reverse death, and he had paid the price with several (hundreds, thousands) of his own deaths.

But the fabric of reality surrounding the battlefield was already torn by the combined actions of both the Avengers and Thanos, and it would tear even further with the final sacrifice; to use the Stones again at that moment, even one, was to rip the threads of the universe to pieces.

And so the dead remained dead.

Even though Stephen knew this, knew the logic behind his actions, knew that in triage situations, some people got the black tag— it did not stop his stomach from twisting into a knot as he lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling and weighed down by the consequences of his actions.

In the silence and loneliness of the Sanctum, even while _logic_ echoed in his head, guilt settled in the depths of Stephen’s core and began to make a home there.

* * *

Despite pretending everything was _okay_ and despite going through the motions of his duties, the guilt grew into a beast that swiftly consumed Stephen’s being. He felt little need to eat and his sleep was plagued with new nightmares that caused him to work himself into exhaustion (and thus dreamless nights).

By the time Tony’s funeral arrived, he had lost several pounds and the raccoon eyes were becoming more prominent. A small glamour spell helped conceal that, but still Wong looked at him with thinly-veiled concern.

“Are you sure that the invitation was not just for you?” Stephen asked as he found a suit, miraculously still intact after years (literally years) of no wear.

“Of course I’m sure,” Wong said slowly, his voice carefully even. “You were mentioned by name.”

“Ah.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll be ready in time, then.”

Wong was still looking at him with that expressionless and yet all-knowing look, so Stephen turned away and went to the en-suite bathroom to avoid uncomfortable questions. They didn’t have time to prod into that right now.

After all, it would be rather rude of him to be late to the funeral of a man he had black tagged.

* * *

His lack of regular meals and general lack of care for eating was a new thing for him in this post-Thanos world (but he just didn’t have time for such trivial pursuits as food, not when he had five years to catch up on and a very damaged border between realities to monitor, to attempt to repair). Stephen got away with not really eating anything substantial for two weeks after Tony’s funeral.

Apparently someone (probably Wong) noticed this and the trend came to an abrupt halt. 

It started with the steward of the New York Sanctum. The steward’s role fulfilled the very real need of seeing to the general care and maintenance of the very magical and rather finicky building; it could only be fully overseen by a fully-trained disciple while its Master was dealing with the mystical threats in their part of the world. Stephen’s steward had been snapped into oblivion at the same time as he and was replaced with someone who spoke very little English. He remained at the post after the return of the Disappeared and generally avoided him, which was all well and good for Stephen. However, two weeks after the funeral, his steward was suddenly transferred to London (with no input asked from him either, the nerve) and the London steward came to New York.

His new steward was a woman: Italian, about sixty years old, five feet tall, and potentially the scariest woman he had ever met.

If anyone ever discovered his thoughts on the matter, they might wonder how that was possible when Stephen had been under the tutelage of the Ancient One. To him, she was the most _powerful_ woman he had ever known, but he did not equivocate power with terror.

Ludovica Guerriero, on the other hand, was downright frightening. She _seemed_ nice on first meeting; he learned she had come to be a part of the order a year after the Decimation, for all her children and grandchildren had been lost in that event (and with that story his guilt buried itself deeper into his soul). Unlike some of the new recruits who left for their families once they returned, Ludovica stayed on; she liked keeping busy and could ‘go visit the family whenever I want to, anyway’.

At first it was fine. Her first day there, she rearranged things her way while Stephen beat back some inter-dimensional boggarts and sealed a rip between dimensions in Guatemala. When he portaled back to the Sanctum, something that could only be called _Italian_ was permeating the halls that led to the kitchen with a rich mix of smells. Unwittingly, his stomach growled.

He stepped towards the kitchen, then paused. He did not have time to sit down and eat if he wanted to finish his research before his body ultimately gave out on him. But as he started towards the stairs, Ludovica’s voice came to him with, “Doctor Strange? Is that you?”

Stephen sighed quietly and then called, “It’s me.” He took the few remaining steps towards the kitchen and halted at the doorway. “Smells good, Mrs Guerriero.”

“I’m glad you think so. I thought I’d do something special for my first night in New York for our dinner.”

Best to tell her immediately of his plans. “Actually, I—”

She continued on as if he hadn’t said a thing. “This was my nonna’s recipe. _Parmigiana di melanzane_ with tomato, aubergine, the freshest mozzarella cheese; all ingredients picked up in my home town today.”

He blinked, momentarily sidetracked. “Sorry, uh, aubergine?”

Her brow furrowed. “Is that not the right word? It is _melanzane_, you know—” She cut herself off and pulled a stem with only part of the purple fruit remaining upon it. “This plant.”

“Oh! Oh, yeah, that’s an eggplant.”

“Eggplant? What a strange name.” She started dishing out the bake. “Would you mind setting the table, doctor?”

“I…” he started in protest, but the look she gave him was so sweet and imploring and kind. It reminded him of his grandmother from when he was young. He exhaled slowly; so much for his plans. “Sure.”

And that _parmigiana di melanzane_ was really fucking delicious. It had no right to be that good.

About a week later, when he realized he had somehow been corralled to the dinner table every night since her arrival (and was a couple pounds heavier because of it), Stephen Strange realized that, underneath that sweet exterior, Ludovica Guerriero was an emotionally manipulative mastermind that knew exactly what to say to get him to do exactly what she wanted. This was absolutely terrifying.

Stephen was going to kill Wong.

* * *

Despite the terrible emotional manipulation being forced upon his person regarding (incredibly delicious) food, Stephen somehow maintained the status quo with his duties for five weeks after the funeral. He would work himself to utter exhaustion and only then find some rest (though even with this method the nightmares came on occasion, when he was just not exhausted enough, in his opinion).

(The part of his mind well-versed in psychology laughed incredulously at that line of thinking. He told that part of his mind to shut up and mind its own business, then threw himself in his work again.)

But eventually it all came crashing down. Of course it did; that was his life the last… however many years. Two or seven depending on how one counted.

The most embarrassing part was the situation that ended up being the straw that broke the camel’s back. It was stupid, completely irrelevant, and shouldn’t have even happened, but here he was.

It went like this:

Ludovica was out for the day with her family in Italy, Wong was over to discuss things, and they were both hungry. Neither of them felt like cooking, so.

“What do you want to eat?” Stephen asked as his glamour spell transformed his robes to something more normal for New York. “Pizza? Sandwiches? Thai? Something else?”

Wong thought for a moment. “I wouldn’t say no to a tuna melt.”

Stephen stilled his steps; that sounded familiar. Why did that sound familiar? It was just a sandwich—

_‘I’ll tell the guys at the deli. Maybe they’ll make you a metaphysical ham on rye.’_

Stephen blinked and placed a hand against the wall to steady himself. He heard Wong say, “Stephen?” but it sounded muffled and distant.

_‘A… buck and a half,’ Wong admitted._

_He sighed. ‘What do you want?’_

_Wong clapped his hands together and followed him down the rest of the stairs. ‘I wouldn’t say no to a tuna melt.’_

_The crash of breaking glass and wood, emitting a sound loud enough to almost contest the car accident._

_Bruce Banner. Tony Stark. Thanos is coming. Ebony Maw. We swore an oath to protect the Time Stone with our lives. Fourteen million, six hundred and five. _

_One._

“…en. Look at me, Stephen. You’re in the New York Sanctum Sanctorum. You’re safe. The cloak wants to reach out to you, Stephen, but I batted it away until you can look at me. You’re safe.”

Wong’s words managed to break through the cacophony of madness splitting his mind and he gasped as he focused his eyes on Wong. At some point he had ended up on the floor. His heart attempted to beat itself out of his chest.

When they made eye contact, Wong said without breaking it, “You can rest on him, but get back if his heart rate increases.” Then he continued, as the cloak gently settled itself on Stephen’s shoulders, “Copy my breathing, Stephen. Inhale… and exhale. Good, just like that. Again, inhale… and exhale. Again.”

His breathing evened out and his heart rate eventually slowed to something approaching normal, and Stephen was finally able to manage words. “Where— where did you— learn how to do— do that?”

Wong didn’t answer. Rather, he asked, “Can I help you off the floor?”

Still in a daze he nodded his acquiescence, and Wong took an elbow and forearm and hoisted him up with the assistance of the cloak. He led Stephen to one of the smaller, quieter parlours within the Sanctum and sat him down in a comfortable chair. “I’ll be right back.”

‘Right back’ was certainly not immediate, but Stephen lost track of time and Wong seemed to return nearly instantly, this time with a couple fresh cups of tea. He did not attempt to give it to Stephen, but rather set it down beside him. Clearly he saw just how badly his hands were trembling.

Wong took a seat across from him and brought his own cup to his lips. He said nothing as Stephen further calmed his heart rate and the tremors in his hands became less prominent.

Several minutes of silence later, Stephen murmured, “Sorry.”

“I knew it would happen sooner or later,” was Wong’s answer. Stephen swallowed and said nothing. “You cannot continue going on like this.”

Stephen’s instinctive reaction was denial, but he could feel Wong’s eyes on him and his retort fell before it could even begin. “There’s too much to do,” he said instead.

“There always is,” was Wong’s reply.

The silence sat between them again when Wong did not expound further and Stephen battled against a myriad of emotions within his own mind. He tried to distract himself with tea, but the shaking in his hand was too prominent, too debilitating, so he withdrew it.

Another two minutes passed. “I have been given another chance in this world,” he tried instead. “All my efforts should go to protecting it.”

Wong eyed him expressionlessly. “Your efforts have gone above and beyond most. They have seen the resurrection of all life that was unjustly taken five years ago.”

“Those were not my efforts,” Stephen argued. “That was the Avengers.”

“And you set them on that path.”

The tremors increased. He swallowed heavily. “My efforts caused the entire universe to suffer for years. My efforts brought an intergalactic war to Earth’s soil. My efforts brought chaos and despair that led to so much _death_.” His voice broke on that last word and he turned his head away from Wong.

Wong permitted him a moment before speaking again. “I was told it was over fourteen million futures you saw.” A shudder ran through Stephen in reply. “At what point did you see this future?”

He swallowed. “Somewhere around four million.”

“And you searched another ten million after.”

His hands would not stop their violent shaking. He loosely gripped at the cloak and it curled around his hand. “I’m not— I’ve done triage before,” he started. “Battle of New York. We didn’t have the resources to— to save everyone. We had to pick our cases. Before the accident, it was one of the most difficult moments of my life.

“But this reality was— it was too much to ask. There were too many black tags. I knew there… there were hundreds of millions of permutations. Maybe billions. But I could not sustain the strength needed to search further. I was not… not strong enough.” And to his horror, he felt tears falling from his eyes. He could not look at Wong.

“Stephen. Stephen, look at me.” Reluctantly, after a brief moment, he turned his face towards him. Wong’s steadfast look was blurred by the unwanted tears. “You are the strongest man I have ever known. What you did no other human being could have accomplished.” Stephen’s gaze lowered. “And you must remember: you saw the paths of the future, but you did not control its course. Everyone had their own free will to make the choices they made; they knew death was a real possibility, but they chose to fight.”

Another shudder ran through his entire body and he felt the cloak increase its pressure against him ever so slightly. He placed his face in his trembling hands and just tried to get a _grip_.

He suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Stephen,” Wong muttered.

His tenuous grasp on his emotions completely broke. Another full body shudder ran through him before an ugly sob broke past his lips. Once it started, it was as if a dam had been broken; all his grief and guilt released itself then, the all-encompassing pain overwhelming his entire being. Even as he wept and mourned everything that had been lost, the cloak carefully curled about him and Wong remained a silent, steadfast presence at his side. His hand never left his shoulder.

And with the brick wall he had put about his heart finally breaking down, Stephen began to take his first steps towards recovery.

* * *

“Oh, Doctor, you have mail.”

Stephen looked up from the tome to stare at Ludovica. “Mail? As in… from the mailbox?”

“Where else does mail come from?” she answered with a soft tut. He took the envelope from her and she left the study.

He frowned at the address. Upstate New York. What was in upstate New York? He carefully opened the envelope and unfolded the letter.

Oh. They finished rebuilding the Avengers compound. And… a celebration. A memorial, for Tony Stark, Natasha Romanoff, and all those who gave their lives over a year ago.

And he, Wong, and any sorcerer who wished to attend were invited to celebrate their lives.

Stephen’s eyes grew distant for a moment as his mind went back to that day. The ache was still there, but it did not consume him anymore. It had joined the other poignant, bittersweet reminders of days past, of those gone but still within living memory.

He softly exhaled before standing to head down the hall to Kamar-Taj. He was sure there were many who would be interested in attending, and to remember those gone so that they would not be forgotten.

**Author's Note:**

> Someone with the dedicated duty of basically babysitting Sanctums while their Masters fight off things was an idea lovingly borrowed from keshwyn here on AO3. Her series of one-shots around this figure are super super super gorgeous, go read them.
> 
> Ask prompts are still open on [my tumblr](https://aelaer.tumblr.com/) (especially if you help me fill my gaps in [my bingo cards](https://aelaer.tumblr.com/post/185978849477/i-figured-that-now-im-actively-filling-two-cards), ahhhh).


End file.
